"You can't fault people for feeling that something's amiss," Kit says. "One piece of bad luck might be a coincidence. A dozen, one after another? That begins to feel different."
It would be nice to think that people are just easily alarmed. Maybe they are.
"I'll keep my eyes open," you say.
"I'm glad to hear it." Kit looks around with frank interest.
There are actors and stagehands visible between the side buildings of the stage and the curtain, busily setting up. The first of the musicians are arranging the benches where they'll play, while Cinnamon runs barking round their feet as if hoping they've brought sausages as well as flute and trumpets. A breath of wind makes the sheer curtains that veil the empty stage tremble.
"It really is its own little world, isn't it?" Kit comments. "Or—not so little, because the whole world's here."
Kit isn't wrong, but you'd better not loiter here much longer while there's work to do.
"It's a very busy little world, so I'd better hurry!" you say, and clamber down the rest of the steps, making your way around the stage to the side building.
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